


The Right to Rule

by RSZealot



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, conjecture about the forsaken government, flagrant use of democracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 22:17:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21345640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RSZealot/pseuds/RSZealot
Summary: Calia comes to claim her birthright. Mortuus endures her presence.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	The Right to Rule

**Author's Note:**

> This is largely a joke fic about the news that Calia will not lead the Forsaken.

Orgrimmar.

Mortuus _hated_ Orgrimmar.

It was too bright, too dry, and too busy. The constant desert heat and the dry air threatened to mummify him if he so much as set foot outside, and Grommash hold was always full of people that demanded his attention. He was a busy man, with much on his plate, between trying to convince the other leaders of the Horde to stop putting his people in chains to overseeing a scattered refugee population and-

He stopped, unable to ignore the strange and very persistent woman behind him, her glowing eyes drilling holes in the back of his skull.

“Yes?” he drawled, very much not looking forward to this conversation.

“Greetings,” the woman replied, smiling, “I am Calia Menethil. I am to understand that you are-”

“And what would you ask of death?” He knew what tangent she was about to go on, about her complete lack of an understanding about how the Forsaken functioned. He would spare them the trouble. She looked taken aback by his interruption, but righted herself with a small cough.

“I- I am here for my throne?” He could tell he was unnerving her. She didn’t seem to have that much experience dealing with undead at his level of decay, she was staring at the missing chunk of skull around where his left eyeball should be.

“Oh, is that all?” He quirked what was left of his eyebrow. “I’m afraid that it’s still in the old throne room in the Undercity. Perhaps the _alliance_”-he spat the word-”could be more of a help there.” He gave her a shrug and turned back to his desk. As he went back to his paperwork, she persisted in standing there, perhaps thinking of what to say next. He could still feel her eyes on him. Like someone holding a lit lightbulb to close to his skin. Heat, and a slight tingle. After a minute, she cleared her throat. He turned back to her, saying nothing.

She was wearing a determined expression, positively radiating energy. It made him slightly nauseous for the first time since those sin’dorei paladins in Northrend.

“I am Calia Menethil, daughter of King Terenas and rightful ruler of Lordaeron. I have come to claim my throne and lead my people.” She paused, but didn’t look quite finished, so he waited her out. “They _need_ me.”

Her mask of righteous determination faded into confusion as a wet gurgling noise escaped the Grand Executor’s throat. A laugh, or as close to it as he could come.

“I know you spent the last few years on a farm, miss, but in case you haven't noticed, the monarchy is gone. The Dark Lady set us free of such things.”  
“And now she has abandoned you!” Calia retorted, now less stoic. “And I have come to set things right.”

Mortuus let out a garbled bark. “Set things right? We have a leader, whether the Dark Lady returns to us or not. I am the Grand Executor, the people have chosen me to lead. Not you.” He pointed at her. “I know your game Menethil. You think you can replace her. Just waltz right back in after all the hard work’s been done and just retake your ‘birthright’ and rule.”

Calia deflated visibly, no longer possessing that eye-searing confidence. “So, let me teach you a thing or two about how the Forsaken work.” Mortuus walked up to her, smiling to himself at the way she recoiled at his presence. Undead or not, she was just like the rest of them. “The Grand Executor is chosen by the people from among the High Executors, who are in turn chosen by the people from among the Executors, who are in turn also chosen by the people. It’s called democracy. The only being above me is the Dark Lady herself, who, might I add, was also chosen by the people.”

As he spoke, he kept advancing, backing her into the doorway. He leaned in over her, facing those sickeningly radiant eyes to glare at her. “So, tell me, miss Menethil. Who chose you?”

She remained silent, despite her obvious fear.

“May I suggest, then, that you go back to Kul Tiras, get back together with that pet project of yours, and stay out of this whole mess. Leave the Forsaken to rule themselves.”

She said nothing as she left.


End file.
